


Collection of Unfinished WIPs

by eleventy7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28230501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleventy7/pseuds/eleventy7
Summary: Each chapter is an abandoned Drarry WIP. These are my first, unedited drafts.
Comments: 33
Kudos: 76





	1. Daydreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Daydreams and Nightmares  
> Rating: G  
> Summary: Draco begins having intense daydreams after returning to Hogwarts to complete his eighth year. Harry’s curiosity is sparked and he manages to elbow his way into Draco’s life in an attempt to solve the mysteries of the daydreams.  
> Content warnings: None.

Draco dreamed, and he would never tell.

He dreamed during class, he dreamed during study. He dreamed during meals, he dreamed during Quidditch. Yes; high over the pitch, seeing everything stretching away below him, his mind drifted, caught in tides, streaming through the memories as he fluttered on the breeze, thin and wind-worn as a tattered leaf. He saw the snitch go by, and he followed it, weaving amongst the clouds, and it felt like he was dreaming again. Peculiar, he thought. There was a war. Death and pain and unimaginable hexes. So peculiar they’re all back here again for their eighth year, pretending nothing happened. Studying for the tests and reading books and getting in trouble for not wearing the uniform neatly. It just seemed...

...Not right. 

A distant roar.

That was all he could hear, a faint roar filling his ears, and that was all he could see, a mistiness before his eyes.

He fell.

* * *

“Did you slip?”

“Did you feel ill or dizzy?”

“You shouldn’t have been flying so high, you know the brooms can go all funny at high altitudes...”

“Did you get hit by a bludger?”

Draco gazed blankly into the worried expressions of Pansy and Blaise. They stood by his bed in the infirmary, crowding him. They meant well, he knew, but he wanted to be alone.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes to which one?” They looked at him, wanting answers, simple answers.

“Everything,” he said, and turned away to sleep again.

* * *

The dreams came back. They stopped after the Quidditch incident for a bit, as though they knew they had pushed him too far. But then they came back.

He saw things all the time.

Oh, not _those_ things. Not _Seeing_. He didn’t have Potter’s visions, or Firenze’s knowledge of the futures and stars. No. A different kind of seeing, a different kind of life.

He would be sitting there, in Potions, stirring a tincture. Seven times clockwise, seven times anti-clockwise. He liked the number seven. Seven colours in a rainbow. Seven players in a Quidditch team. Seven years at Hogwarts. Seven days of the week. Seven Weasley children. Draco had always wanted siblings, always yearned for company in his lonely childhood, and he secretly begrudged Ron Weasley for it. As though the Weasley family had stolen Draco’s unborn sisters and brothers.

One, two, three. Keep stirring. Four, five, six.

Seven.

And he’d look up and see his mother walking across the classroom. Fifteen-year-old Narcissa Malfoy, her hair carefully braided, balancing various phials, smiling over Draco’s shoulder. He’d turn and see an awkward Slytherin boy behind him, smiling shyly and ducking his head.

Coming out of these – _daydreams_ , he’d call them – was like walking through water. He would emerge slowly, dragging himself through the fogginess around him, struggling to make out the faces, until they eventually sharpened into definition.

Professor Slughorn.

“Are you alright, Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

Narcissa Malfoy faded away.

Professor Slughorn gave him a curious look and wandered away to congratulate another student on his potion.

Draco sighed and closed his eyes, a little afraid to open them again.

* * *

He knew they weren’t daydreams, not like other people had them. Other people seemed to snap out of them as easily as cutting a thread. And they daydreamed over stupid things, like unsent letters or homework or whether someone was thinking about them.

But Draco dreamed about things that could have been, or _might_ have been, or things that had happened to somebody else a long time ago.

“Draco,” Pansy said, in a tone that made Draco think she had been trying to get his attention for some time, “ _please_ pass the butter.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, Draco, Potter didn’t really push you off your broom, did he?” Blaise wanted to know. Draco shrugged.

“Only, he’s looking at you funny.”

Draco looked up. The Gryffindor table was filled with unfamiliar faces and old-fashioned uniforms. One of those dreams again, he thought absently, and he turned away.

“What’s wrong?” Pansy whispered to him. “You’re acting...odd.”

“I’m fine.”

Pansy hesitated. “Is everything alright at home?”

Draco laughed, startling even himself. It seemed an automatic reaction. Home! His father was imprisoned and his mother broken with grief. The manor was searched, the rooms ransacked, ‘evidence’ taken, things confiscated. Family portraits were removed for ‘questioning’, vases and urns cracked open, floorboards wrenched up. He had stood, watching, as the special Ministry man carefully went along all the surfaces, with spells caught to notice several things. He took out his wand, ran it across everything.

“It picks up sites where blood is, or has been,” the man told him. When he entered the drawing room, the wand lit everything up with a violent red. The table, the walls, the chairs.

“I could have told you that,” Draco said, but his voice broke halfway through the sentence and the man ignored him.

It was strange, watching his home being dissected. It felt like they were carefully picking up his memories, hopes, and dreams, carefully placing them in little numbered bags, writing little labels on them to file them away forever. He imagined what they did with everything. The remains of Draco Malfoy’s life. Yes. _Remains_ was a good word. A shred of dignity, perhaps, a few scraps of a half-remembered song. Some remnants of childhood, some escaped memories. Leftovers, bits and pieces from what he once was.

Nothing was all right, he thought, and his home was gone.

* * *

He felt tired all the time, which was especially troublesome during Potions. He had the misfortune of being paired with Harry Potter during a lesson on a finicky healing potion.  
  
“ _Not_ the deadly nightshade!”

Draco rubbed a hand loosely across his face, as though he could smooth away everything; his past, his memories, his identity.

“Not the dung-beetles either! Merlin, what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said, because he was too tired to lie. 

Now everybody was staring.

“I don’t want to work with you,” Harry said in an edgy tone. “Professor, can I switch partners?” He managed to catch Slughorn’s eye.

“Yes, alright, I don’t want any conflict,” Slughorn said generously, as Blaise volunteered to swap himself with Harry.

Slughorn was quite wrong; conflict wasn’t the reason. You could hear it in Harry’s voice: _I don’t want to work with him, he’s being odd, something’s not right in there..._

“...you’ve got to pull yourself together, Draco. I mean, first Potter corrects you in Potions, then you just stand there looking stupid? For Merlin’s sake, wake up!” Blaise slapped his hand down on the desk.

Draco wished he could.

* * *

At least Draco wasn’t alone in his sleepiness during History of Magic, when Professor Binns lulled half the class to sleep. Draco rested his head on his forearms, watching dust motes slowly drift through the afternoon sunlight, and considered a brief nap.

“Is it true about your brother?”

Draco jerked his head upwards. A troubled-looking boy was looking sadly at a young girl.

“Yes.”

“Merlin. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” The girl pushed her hair behind her ears. “Shall we move through the steps again?”

“Yes. Only let’s stop at midnight, I’m tired.”

Draco glanced outside. A moon hung in the midday air.

When he glanced back, the desks had been pushed back, all except his. The couple moved through dances, practising steps, moving through his solitary desk like ghosts.

“...a very fine essay, Mr Malfoy, although I’m afraid some points were historically incorrect...” Binns handed the essay to Draco, then drifted away. The room was empty; apparently class had been dismissed.

The midday moon had vanished.

* * *

“Over here, Draco!” Pansy waved as Draco edged into the Charms classroom. “Late again. I suppose Binns ran overtime? Why you even bother doing NEWT level History of Magic is beyond me...”

Draco slumped into his seat, pulling out his History notes to examine them. There were a few words here and there, plenty of doodles. Mostly little spirals or meandering patterns, although one of them was a moon shrouded in clouds.

“I’m going mad,” he said softly.

He promised himself not to dream again.

* * *

It was cold, dark and raining, he was dressed in formal robes and had no memory.

He was walking, quickly, holding a pair of tattered boots in one hand. That was the first thing he noticed, the silver drizzle in front of him. He looked down at his bare feet, walking along the rain-slicked cobblestones beneath him. It was night, a beautifully dark night with a thin crescent moon, and it made the rain stand out more, glittering against the darkness.

He wasn’t cold, he realised. He had been cold for months, as though it had crept into his bones and would settle there forever. Yes; despite the rain, it was a tepid, mild night. He was wearing dress robes, slightly too long, tattered a little. He was wandless, but he was not afraid. The darkness felt like an old friend.

Lights twinkled in the darkness; he could see the dark outline of houses, the occasional front room emanating a welcoming glow. His pace quickened. The rain lightened.

His feet lead the way. He could see a soft glow in the distance, and he knew that was where he was going. He kept walking, expecting the dream to end, but now he was at a door, he was opening it, and –

He woke.

* * *

“Everything alright?”

“Yes.”

Pansy paused halfway through packing up her books, readying to leave the common room and head to class. “It doesn’t _seem_ all right.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh. Only...you seem a bit...”

“A bit what?” snapped Draco. “Mad? Odd? Peculiar? Take your pick!”

“Alright, well, I’ll pick all of them!” Pansy said angrily. “I was just trying to be nice! Do you _have_ to be so sensitive?”

“You just want me the way I used to be,” Draco retorted, a pink flush creeping up his face. It had been ages since he had felt anger. “You just want everything to go back to normal, don’t you?” _Before the war._ The words remained unspoken, yet they hung heavily in the air.

“Of course I do, I miss you!”

“I’m right here!”

They stood, furious, facing each other, Pansy’s knuckles white as she clutched her books, Draco’s cheeks an unbecoming red. They were both suddenly aware of a growing audience; their fellow Slytherins were staring at them.

“Look,” Pansy said, forcing her voice to be level, “you know what I mean.”

“It’s true,” Blaise said, standing from his armchair to stand opposite Draco. “You’re not yourself. Come on, let’s go. You’re just embarrassing yourselves.”

Blaise led Pansy away; the crowd began to disperse, hurrying to their classes. Draco was left alone in the common room, his shoulders slumped.

“How am I not myself?” he said, and his voice echoed, lonely and desperate. 

_How am I not myself?_

* * *

Lucius Malfoy was daydreaming, his face cupped in his hand, staring out the window. Sun streamed into the dusty Runes classroom, illuminating his white-blond hair.

A piece of chalk whizzed past his nose.

“Malfoy! Pay attention!” A short, stout woman waved her hands around in annoyance.“What does this rune mean?”

In front of him, Narcissa turned around and smiled, before mouthing something.

“Serve, professor. It translates as ‘serve’,” Lucius said smoothly.

“Close, but not correct, I’m afraid. ‘Save’ is the answer. Malfoy, you must –“

“ – pay attention!” Professor Flitwick squeaked. “Mr Malfoy, I’m yet to see a single correctly-done Calming Charm from you!”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Draco said in a low voice. In front of his eyes, Lucius Malfoy dissipated, wavering like an oasis. Like a ghost.

“Well, I think some practice tonight will do you good. And I think that can apply to Mr Potter and Mr Weasley.”

In the corner, the boys groaned miserably.

* * *

That night, Draco dreamed again. 

He was on a beach. The shore was smoothed clean by the tides. The moon shone high above calm seas.

There was a bonfire, bright and lovely in the night. People were gathered around it, singing happily, sweetly, the lovely half-songs of the tipsy reveller. Later, the songs would become sadder, quieter, until strangers wept.

Somebody was standing, knee-deep, in the sea, letting the water soak their clothes. As Draco approached them, the silhouette became clearer. They turned their head, smiling at him.

“Draco, look at the moon.”

“Theo?”

“Look at it. Don’t you want it?”

Draco gazed at him in bewilderment, then looked up at the round moon. “The moon?”

Theo reached up and for a moment, the illusion seemed to crumble. It wasn’t the moon at all, it was small, and it was a smooth white stone that now rested in Theo’s hand.

“How did you do that?” Draco asked, reaching out and accepting the stone. 

Theo looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you remember? You taught me.”

* * *

Theodore Nott.

Cold and alone, buried not six months ago. Draco did not attend the funeral.

He didn’t own any suitable robes, anyway, though he didn’t know what to wear in any case. Formal? Informal? Did it matter if they weren’t black, could you wear gray or brown or olive?

He wondered why people were supposed to wear formal robes. For respect, he supposed, although Theodore Nott had never worn formal robes in his life (he’d attended the Yule Ball in the Quidditch robes of his favourite team, much to the amusement of students and chagrin of teachers) and it made Draco wince to think of them dressing his cold body, stuffing his arms into stiff, starched robes, like a mannequin. Draco thought he’d probably end up laughing or throwing up anyway, or doing something equally hideous at the funeral.

Pansy, however, failed to see this logic and had never forgiven him for his absence.

He sighed as a teenaged Lucius Malfoy laughed in front of him, playing a card game with a cheerful Slytherin.

Draco stared at him until he dissolved.


	2. Dancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: In the year following the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco discovers a room where two students arrive every night to dance together. Draco watches from the shadows until one day, neither student returns. 
> 
> Rating: G
> 
> Content warnings: Character death (not Draco or Harry).

It was not a dark and stormy night, which was a shame, because otherwise it would have suited Draco’s mood _perfectly_.

But it was not. It was wonderfully calm and tranquil, the dark sky as clear as rain, the stars brilliant as jewels. The milky way was a tossed handful of diamond dust, the moon a heavy droplet, hanging by a few threads of leftover cloud. He felt that if he called out, his voice would echo clear across the world, streaming across the night sky like a bright long ribbon.

The snow crunched underfoot, crisp but already stained by the long dark shadows of the night, the hooves of unseen animals, the dark smear of a leaf that had fallen too late for autumn. Somebody had left their mitten hanging from a tree branch; an accident, perhaps, or a joke. Perhaps even a Slytherin out to scare somebody later. It now dangled, suspended in frozen time. When he reached out and touched it, a miniscule icicle dropped .

He thoroughly enjoyed his midnight walks. Well, he liked to think of them (rather romantically) as midnight walks. Realistically, by midnight he was safe in bed, dreams already twitching to life beneath his closed eyelids, his breathing deep and heavy, his wand cold and solitary on his bedside table. No; at nine o’clock was when his dawdle commenced. Not a brisk stroll or even a walk. An aimless dawdle around bits and pieces of the place he knew and loved well. Skirting around the Forbidden Forest, smelling the danger and memories around its edges. Drawing close to the lake, skipping a stone, waiting for the final ripple to die before skipping another. He didn’t skip stones to see how far they went, or what the giant squid would do. No, he preferred the ripples, seeing how far they would spread, seeing if they would touch any other ripples caused by unknown creatures. The lake was beautifully still tonight, though already slightly frozen in the shallow shores. He ran a gloved hand across the thin ice. If he looked closely enough, he could see the tiny fractures underneath, looking like sparks from the end of a wand, like fireworks. He withdrew his hand, the cold already creeping through his glove like a particularly insidious potion, and got to his feet, walking cautiously. In the dark, snow and ice looked alike, and he was alert, waiting for the smallest _crack_ to reach his ears and warn him of his fate.

He carefully drew back from the lake, pausing to look around. The castle always looked cosy. The Gryffindor tower was lit up, as always, yellow glows coming from every window. He mapped it out in his mind – that big window would have to be the common room, the upper, smaller windows would be the dormitories. The Ravenclaw tower was lit up too, but the Astromony Tower was unlit, unattended. Then, underneath the towers, came the rows of dark, silent classrooms. And underneath them yet again was the Great Hall – dark, empty, unnoticed now. Then the Hufflepuff rooms, and last would come the Slytherin dungeons, unseen, but inside it a great fire would be roaring in the common room, keeping the biting cold at bay.

And out in the grounds, the lights still shone. Here was Hagrid’s hut, a window glowing, a dog barking.

But Draco was alone now, in the cold and dark, looking at the great castle, seeing all the lights, imagining the people inside. Some would be crying, some would be laughing. Some would be telling secrets, some would be hiding things. So many stories that he would never know.

Draco wandered for a long time, roving over the grounds, as though they belonged to him and only him. As the lights slowly blinked out though, he knew it was time to return and cut across a sea of fresh snow, listening to the sound of his footsteps in the silence, and finally found his way to his bed, quietly slipping in to avoid waking his snoring friends. As he prepared for bed, however, one of his dormitory mates rolled over sleepily.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Just came back from a walk.”

“Be careful, you might get lost.” Their reply was nearly lost in a half-yawn but he heard it and laughed softly. He knew this ancient castle and its enchanting grounds. In his head, he explored the Forbidden Forest, skated across the lake, walked alone down the corridors of the castle – until he drifted into sleep.

* * *

“What would you do if you ruled the world, Harry?”

Harry knew instantly. He looked across the table, listening to the laughter and chatter of other students enjoying their breakfast. Ginny was smiling, waiting for an answer, but Harry took a while, his eyes staring into the distance, a frown worrying at his lips, and Ginny caught the sadness in his face.

“Don’t answer it.”

“I’d — ”

“I know.” She paused, drawing a fingernail lightly over a freckle on her hand, as though it were a mark or a stain. “It’s alright.”

Harry might have asked her the same question, but he was too scared of her answer. Scared that it might be the same as his.

Across the table, Ron caught his eye. His food, for once, was uneaten and cold.

Harry knew Ron was already mourning, as though everything was inevitable.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. This time, not just inside Draco’s head. Gone was yesterday’s smooth dark skies and threads of stars. Now clouds rolled heavily across a heaving sky. It looked as though the night was a living creature, breathing in and out heavily, hurling rain and sleet around, smashing up the ground with hail.

He sighed. The lake was definitely out the question – in fact, the entire “outside” was. A night for a walk around the castle, which had been quite nice usually (providing he avoided Mrs Norris and her master, and the ever-loathsome Peeves). However since a recent surprise encounter (for both parties) involving a teacher skulking in the shadows and inadvertently nearly stepping on him, he had been spending time out in the grounds. But it was definitely an inside night. He left his cloak and gloves behind, taking his wand and wits with him.

Long, dark corridors passed him by. Sleeping portraits occasionally cracked one eye open and looked sleepily around. The stone floors, worn smooth by centuries of shoes – their owners now long gone – made a slight tapping noise as he walked upon them. Stealth wasn’t needed – at nine o’clock on a miserably cold night, most students were huddled by their fires, and the teachers – full of pudding and sleepiness – were dozing in their armchairs already.

It was probably around half-past that he suddenly stopped. His footsteps paused but his heartbeat crashed on, loud and fast. He knew he was lost.

How could this happen? In _his_ castle? But he had never seen a door there before! And he was certain it wasn’t the Room of Requirement. He reached out and brushed the door handle. It was real enough, heavy, made of brass, inviting and less cold then he thought it would be.

He hesitated. He was less rash than people liked to think. Then, carefully, quietly – his wand drawn out in front of him – he gently and silently opened the door.

* * *

_What would you do if you ruled the world?_

Harry couldn’t breathe for the pain.

* * *

It was cold, dark and empty. About half the size of the Great Hall, but without the enchanted ceiling. The high, large windows made up for it, the stone ledges inviting once padded with a cushioning spell, creating a makeshift window seat. Pointed arches and ornate stonework created deep shadows; Draco wandered up to a window and sat, hesitatingly, by it. The glass was clear, free of dust, and his breath fogged across it as he stared out at the moody night sky. The stars were hidden by torn strips of cloud, the moon riding low on the sky. For just a moment, Draco thought, he’d rest his eyes...

There was a tiny creak. Draco opened his eyes lazily, unhurriedly. He was afraid of few things, and strange noises wasn’t one of them.

He watched the silhouette of a person enter the room, much more awake then he was four seconds ago, and huddled further into the safe shadows.

The dark figure walked to the centre of the room, muttering under their breath about something, and pulled up their sleeves, took out their wand, and said “ _Lumos_.”

There was a pause, and then their wand glowed greenishly. Then, gradually, the wand tip glowed brighter, brighter...until a stream of light went straight up towards the vaulted ceiling, and briefly illuminated a magnificent chandelier – which lit up, in all its crystal glory.

“ _Nox_ ,” muttered the person, and though the wandlight immediately went out, the chandelier remained bright and illuminating, lightening the room and revealing just how ornate the stonework had been in this particular part of the castle. However, the angle of the light meant that the ornate arches over each window cast them into deep shadows, something for which Draco was extremely grateful. He watched as Harry Potter – for he could see him clearly now – took off an outer set of loose school robes to reveal smart dress-robes.

And then the door opened a second time, and she entered. Draco gave a start; he recognised her, but at the same time, she looked very different.

“May I have the pleasure?” Harry said, and Ginny smiled. She did a complicated wave of her wand, and it was as though a whole orchestra had suddenly appeared right next to them.

And they danced and danced. They laughed and moved fluidly, as if gravity was just a lie made up to fool everyone. At the end of each song, they would pause – slightly tired and disheveled – and he would point his wand to the ceiling and another song would come through. 

“Tired, Ginny?”

She laughed exuberantly, a wide smile breaking up her freckles. And he always seemed to know that laugh was her answer, and took his position for the next song.

Draco watched silently, until the dancing couple finally wound down into a slow waltz, and though he tried to keep watching, his eyelids finally drooped and he slumped slightly, falling asleep to the strains of a violin solo.

* * *

“I didn’t hear you coming to bed last night, mate. All right?” Ron asked as he sat at the table.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Harry took a bite of toast, then put it down. “If you could be good at something, _anything_ , what would it be?”

“Getting you to stop asking weird questions.” Ron laughed, pulling a plate of kippers toward himself, but Hermione took the question more seriously.

“Transfiguration. I feel like I never mastered it _properly_.” She sighed and chased a rasher of bacon around her plate unhappily.

Harry took another bite from his toast. He wished he were better at dancing. He used to hate it, and he _hated_ learning the steps, but he did it for Ginny. Because _she_ loved it, and he wanted that happiness for her. A song. A dance.

A distraction. 

He stopped that thought before it could continue.

“Malfoy looks peaky.” Ron’s voice was hopeful; after all, Quidditch season was coming up. Harry glanced across briefly to the Slytherin’s table – Draco was gloomily poking his toast around whilst Pansy Parkinson raved about something, shaking a forkful of egg around. Harry turned his attention back to his breakfast but after a beat, he looked up again. 

Draco was staring at him. Harry jumped, slightly disturbed, sloshing pumpkin juice onto Ron’s arm. Draco seemed startled too, giving a little flinch as though he’d been slapped.

After a moment, Harry glanced back. Draco was looking around at the other tables, glancing at Hufflepuff, absent-mindedly moving his eyes across the Ravenclaw table as though it were an interesting book, as if people’s stories were written across their skin and you could skim them like pages.

Harry put a hand up to his scar; of course, his story was written on his skin, in a way. In more then one way, as he lowered his hand and caught the pale words on the back of it. _I must not tell lies_.

It pained him to think how many other people had that same story carved so monstrously into their skin, so deeply engraved that they would never forget.

* * *

Draco came back the next night to watch them dance again. He hid by a window, cloaked in shadows, and as he watched them weave complicated steps as though it was so very easy (he knew it wasn’t) and casually defy gravity every now and again, he wondered why exactly he came back here. To watch two Gryffindors dance. Throwing their heads back and laughing, Harry picking up the Weasley girl and lifting her into the air as though she weighed nothing more than a feather. And he had never seen feet moving faster,unless under the Tarantallegra curse.

He sighed and stared out the window. The storm had returned as the rainclouds swelled - and so did the invisible orchestra, into a dramatic finale. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold glass, drifting in between memories, thoughts and reality, until dreams took over.

When he woke, the room was dark, empty and silent.

* * *

Harry returned to the common room with Ginny, climbing through the portrait. The room was empty, and the fire burning low in the hearth.

“Harry,” Ginny said, “I think I saw someone.”

“What?”

”In the room tonight. By one of the windows.” Ginny hesitated. “I saw Malfoy.”

Harry stared at her; his mouth fell open slightly. After a moment, he curled his hands into fists. “He _can’t_. That’s _our_ room.”

“It’s not ours.”

“It’s our – our _space_. Our _time_.”

“Look – Harry – if he’d mentioned anything, we’d know. The Slytherins would all be prancing about, you know, pretending to be mincing around in the corridors, that kind of thing.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s _seen_ us. Been _spying_ on us. I’m going to kill that stupid git.”

“Sit down!” Ginny said impatiently. Harry grudgingly sat down, glaring at her.

“Look, Harry, I know you’re mad – I know, I _know_ – it’s _our_ space, but...let’s keep dancing.”

“Same room? Same time?”

“Every time. Yes.”

“But what if he comes back –“

“Let him come back.” Ginny sat back. “He should see us happy, after all the misery he’s given us.”

Harry growled; he was, in particular, recalling a certain incident involving his nose introducing itself to Draco’s foot, and was keen to extract suitable revenge.

“Harry – I know what you’re thinking –“

“What am I thinking?” he challenged her.

She grinned at him, and Harry could feel defeat nudging him. Ginny was good at that. She made him feel _better_.

“All right,” he said. “Fine.”

Ginny smiled.

* * *

Soon they were deep in winter. The snow glittered every morning, the frost seeped into every bone. The centaurs huddled in the forest. The thestrals nested in leaves. Deep in the forest, the spiders slept their winter sleep.

And, of course, Christmas. Draco watched them on Christmas Eve. Ginny was giddy with happiness; Harry was flushed with pleasure. She wore a beautiful dress and looked radiant, and on this evening, she wore a white one.

“For the snow,” she said. 

“You should have worn red and green, for Christmas.”

“Oh, Harry. You really have _no_ idea.” She shook her head in distaste.

He laughed and whirled her around, lifting her up, his hands strong and sure around her waist, and she held her arms out for a moment, as if she was flying, without a broomstick, without magic.

Draco felt a wave of sorrow suddenly, and he didn’t know why.

* * *

When everyone arrived back from the Christmas break, winter began a slow retreat. The ice turned to slush, and the slush to water. The whomping willow burst into a thousand tiny green buds, the lake thawed (and in its depths, the giant squid slowly stretched its tentacles and waited for the first victim of spring). Students cautiously wandered out into the chilly spring air, circling the lake once or twice before hurrying back inside, poking at bits of leftover snow hopefully, watching flowers make their way up determinedly through the still-icy ground.

Draco saw red tulips once, coming up through the snow, bright red determinedly pushing up through the deep white. For some reason he was strongly reminded of Ginny and Harry.

* * *

And so they danced. They would never stop dancing, Draco thought. The room wasn’t so cold now, but the stone floor still radiated a chill, and the windows frosty to the touch. Draco leant his forehead against the glass, watching the two learn a new dance.

“Right, left, back,” whispered Harry, as they whirled around the floor, memorising the steps as they went, their feet stumbling and sliding every now and again, but by the time the clock struck midnight a week later, they had perfected it, and now it came to them with easy grace. Sometimes they even closed their eyes when they danced, as though they knew by instinct now how close their partner was and where they were, where each outstretched arm was, where every open hand waited. Sometimes Harry upped the tempo and they danced faster than what was required, until they were almost a blur, calling to each other, until they finally collapsed at the end of the song, laughing and breathing so hard they had to wait a full ten minutes to recover.

It was when Draco felt most alive, when they danced so fast he couldn’t see them, and his chest filled with an aching adrenalin. He couldn’t dance and never would, but he felt as though if he reached out and touched them, somehow it would spread to him, as though it was a new kind of magic, as though something so joyful could be passed by the merest brushing of fingertips.

* * *

Summer came, riding low on the last chilly breezes of spring, and at ten o’clock at night, Harry could be found wearing very loose dress robes, Ginny a much shorter dress then usual, her hair pulled back to combat the heat, and they danced. It was so warm. Harry had murmured an additional spell when he first came in, and Draco tensed in preparation – and rightly so, as every window opened to let the soft, warm summer in, carrying on it the scent of freshly-bloomed roses from the rose garden. Draco revelled in the scent-ridden breeze and happily loosened his robes to enjoy the coolness the night brought with it; Harry and Ginny seemed more tired then usual, no doubt due to the hazy heat of summer. They performed a fast foxtrot, but lazed into a lovely slow waltz. And once more, Draco fell asleep, and woke up alone, the windows closed, the room warm and still slightly rose-scented.

* * *

Exams began to loom but still they danced, and still he watched – never would he stop! – he took his textbooks and notes with him, studying by the open window, waiting for ten o’clock, for the chimes to ring and Harry to walk into the middle of the room and light it up.

And one night, as he walked sedately down there and opened the door, wearing no robes in the stifling heat, his sleeves rolled up, he walked down to the room and waited. And waited. And waited.

His heart dropped. Time froze. They were gone, and they weren’t coming back.

And as he shakily, cautiously, walked to the middle of the room – he saw it. A piece of parchment.

_Such a perfect night — we’re in the rose garden._

He slowly walked out of the castle. Oh, yes. The soothing breeze. The moon, delicate and thin. The night, so clear; the stars, so bright. The roses filling the grounds with their scent, the lake – so still, as if frozen! – but so invitingly clear, reflecting the night sky perfectly. 

As if in a daze, he wandered to the rose garden, and there they were, waiting for him. There was no place to hide. He stood there, and they bowed to him once, perfectly dressed, and waited.

Draco paused, his hands trembling, and then he found his wand and raised it.

“ _Symphonia_ ,” he croaked, and the sky filled with the music, and they began dancing instantly, without hesitation or caution. He collapsed gratefully onto a stone seat, and watched weakly as they twirled, robes flying, hair flattened as they moved so fast, and he couldn’t believe he was here.

He was worried he’d have to renew his spell, or something, but the music changed of its own accord, now into a seductive tango, now into a soft waltz. And as soon as the last song finished, they bowed again and vanished into the night.

Draco, his mouth dry but his hands still and steady, retreated to his dormitory.

They had known all along. Known his eyes followed them, known he had fallen asleep to their music. And yet they had never stopped performing, never dropped the slightest hint that anything was different.

They just hadn’t cared he was there. They were so happy they didn’t care.

* * *

The next night, they were gone.

Ginny Weasley had gone home, and so had Ron. Hermione and Harry had gone with them. A mere week before the term officially ended. _Why?_

Nobody would say anything about it. Draco tried with Pansy again.

“Pansy, you _must_ know — ”

“I told you, I wouldn’t have a clue! Now unless you have something helpful to add to my Potions essay — ”

“But you know _everything_ that goes on.”

“I _told_ you, I don’t know. Who cares what _they_ do, anyway? The war is over.”

Draco said nothing.

* * *

_What would you do if you ruled the world?_

Oh, Ginny, Harry thought. I’d make you better. I’d make all the pain go away.

They went to the Burrow.

It’s time. The curse that had embedded itself in Ginny, thrown during the battle by an enraged Bellatrix, had finally reached Ginny’s heart.  
  


It was time for Ginny to come home.

* * *

“I heard you were sick.”

Ginny laughed, a thin laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. It made Harry laugh himself, until they were simply laughing at nothing, laughing at each other. Trying to laugh away death.

“Oh, Harry. Give me a moment.”

He did. He would give her anything.

“Alright.”

In his dress robes, and she in her loveliest dress, they waltzed slowly around. Ginny’s grip was unexpectedly firm, her steps as precise and powerful as ever.   


He didn’t want to let go.

* * *

That evening, Mrs Weasley organised an outdoor dinner. The tablecloths flew over the table breezily, the smell of dusk caught in them. Plates organised themselves around the table, controlled by Mr Weasley’s wand. George kept transforming the cutlery into interesting creatures behind his back, making Ginny giggle like a ten year old.

And later in the evening, they pushed the tables back and chatted, fooling around, lingering late into the night.

George was using his wand to make a snitch zoom around Ron’s head, annoying him no end. Bill and Charlie, both there for once, were comparing scars and notes on dragons. Ginny slept, sighing every now and again, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder, as Mrs Weasley and Mr Weasley reminisced about the romantic old days. Hermione was nose-deep in her textbook, surfacing every now and again to test Harry.

“Okay, so what is the Latin name for Orion’s Belt?”

“Um,” said Harry guiltily.

“Let’s try something more practical. That star up there,” — Hermione pointed to one of the brightest stars — “what is it?”

“A ball of gas.”

She laughed unexpectedly, and he smiled, more relaxed then he’d been all year, despite the oncoming exams and dreary summer holidays. He looked around him, smiling.

“Would you quit it, you git!” Ron finally reached up and managed to miraculously grab the elusive snitch.

“...Oh, I remember that, Arthur. That was a few weeks before Ginny was born.” Mrs Weasley gave her only daughter a nudge.

“Ginny, dear?”

There’s a little pause. Everyone quietened. Mrs Weasley spoke again, just once, her voice soft and utterly shattered.

”Ginny.”

* * *

Ginny had died. Quietly, in her sleep, without pain, surrounded by friends and family. These facts brought little comfort to Harry.

Harry put his dress robes right into the very back of his trunk, so that he could only feel them if he reached out and caught his hand on the edge of the hem.

* * *

Draco did not believe it at first. _Wouldn’t_ believe it.

McGonagall told them at dinner. As with Diggory’s death, black banners lined the Hall, but no dramatic speech accompanied her death. McGonagall briefly talked of her “Gryffindor spirit”, her “friendly and welcoming ways to all students”, and how sensitivity and tact towards her family and friends would be greatly appreciated in this time of need. Draco remained blank-faced throughout; he remembered Ginny smiling at him, bowing, and looked across at the Gryffindors.

Harry was there. He had returned for the final exams, though McGonagall would have surely exempted him. _Typical martyr_ , Pansy had sneered. _Saint Potter._

Draco had told her to shut up.

* * *

That night Draco waited, determinedly, in the shadows. He would wait. For some reason, Ginny _had_ to turn up and dance. For who would dance with Harry now? No; this was a joke, or a dream. She would be here. But as the room grew darker, and the clock struck ten, Draco felt empty despair.

But then – the door flew open.

Harry stood alone, a wavering shadow, like a cloud skimming across a stormy sky.

He raised his wand. Oh, Merlin. Draco’s heart was in his throat. The chandelier lit up, dazzling, sparkling diamonds and golden detail, brighter then ever before, and the night was beautiful, the stars gleaming in their cold splendour, the dark velvet of the night curling around them, and the moon was a graceful half-crescent, nearly surreal in its perfection. Not a ripple on the lake, the lawns coated in silver dew, the trees were as still and quiet, as though they too were mourning. Draco could not see it all, but he _felt_ it.

And then the music. He was half-expecting a thunderous orchestra, but it was a quiet, slow waltz that struck up. Harry took off his school robes, straightened the dress robes underneath, and stood there, his eyes following something invisible. Something that was not there, and would never be there again.

Harry stood there for so long, silently, face raised towards the glorious chandelier, and Draco was waiting for him to cry, but he never did.He just stood there, with a playful foxtrot playing, the light shining onto his face, his dress robes perfectly arranged, his hair, for once, tamed...and as Draco watched the scene, pain seized his heart and he found himself wishing Harry _had_ cried. 

A secret, between him and her. Nobody else had known. Except for Draco, sitting, sleeping, yawning, watching, even studying! – as they danced before him. He had not appreciated them enough.

Draco turned away, unable to bear it any longer.

* * *

When Harry boarded the train to leave Hogwarts for the final time, Draco wanted to ask him (for the first time) about Ginny. What her favourite colour was. If she had a middle name. What class she excelled in. What her mother had done with all her dresses.

The platform at Hogsmeade Station was annoyingly raucous as usual. People throwing things at each other, fighting over old grudges, having little arguments, telling little stories. They’ve done their part. They were suitably sombre and quiet at the final feast, with the black drapes everywhere to remind everyone. Now they can forget, can laugh without feeling guilty. Ginny was somebody else’s story.

Not theirs.

* * *

People don’t like to talk about death.

Harry _did_ want to talk about it, to someone.

But Ron was always away. Not physically, but he may as well have been. He had a closed-up face, a face that was nearly _daring_ you.

_Go on, say her name._

_Just once._

Harry didn’t go down to the room again. He didn’t walk around the rose garden, or farewell the castle. He went straight to Hogsmeade and waited for the train.

Without Ginny, it was a waste of time.

* * *

Draco walked the length of the train. He didn’t want to sit with Pansy or Blaise, didn’t want to listen to them, and yet nobody else wanted him in their compartment. 

And Merlin knows why he did it, but he stopped by a compartment when he saw Harry sitting there alone, and opened his mouth and said, “I’m sorry — ” and abruptly cut himself off.

“Excuse me?” Harry stared, his mouth slightly open.

Draco didn’t know how to bring it up. The dancing. Ginny. All those scenes he had watched, two people dancing, smiling, talking. Like it was too painful, too private, like he couldn’t bring himself to stain the memories with something so common as words.

“Never mind,” he said instead, and he expected a retort or an insult, but Harry instead looked at him for a long moment, then said nothing.

After a moment, Draco stepped into the compartment and sat on the opposite seat.

Neither of them spoke again during the long trip to London.


	3. Living Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Living Arrows
> 
> Rating: G
> 
> Summary: In the post-war magical world, people are getting married, moving houses, and raising children. They all have one thing in common: Their children attend the Tiny Hippogriffs Early Learning Centre, run by Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott.
> 
> Content Notes: Archive warnings do not apply.

They line the train platform like tragic ghosts, their faces thin and pale. Some clutch wilting bouquets of flowers, the petals heavy and burdened with rain. Their knuckles pale with tension. Somebody is crying somewhere. The sound is low and constant, a heavy heartbeat in the grey afternoon light.

Draco watches expressionlessly as students file past him, their heads hanging, their clothes sodden and their mouths drawn into small, thin lines. By his side, Pansy shifts uncomfortably. Her hair is plastered to her face in long dark strands, her robes slick with rain. She speaks without looking at him; instead, she gazes unseeingly at the yellow roses in her hands. Their petals droop despondently, browning and wilting.

“What shall we do?”

“I don’t know,” Draco mutters, glancing at a student and accidentally meeting their eyes. They stare at him and he quickly drops his gaze. “I don’t know.”

“What’s going to happen to all of us?”

“I’m going away,” Draco says decisively. In the distance, a dull roar rises. The platform signals begin to blink red, the bells clanging. Students turn their faces to the noise, the rain spattering across their countenances. Other than that, nobody speaks. Nobody calls out or cheers. The platform is silent as a grave.

Draco shudders involuntarily before speaking again.

“Far away,” he says distantly. “Away from England. Away from all of _them_.” He doesn’t bother to gesture at ‘them’. He merely observes the huddled students, all of whom do not meet his eye.

“You can’t go away,” Pansy says, her sharp fingernails making deft work of dissecting a petal. “What about...me? What about us?”

Draco lets out a short, sharp laugh, a laugh devoid of any joy.

“In five years time, you’ll be married off to that Merlin-awful Theo.”

“I won’t,” Pansy says bitterly. “I don’t care what our families think about it. I won’t.”

“And I’ll be holed up in the family manor,” Draco continues, ignoring her. “My family name will never be cleared. I’ll never be able to show my face again. They’ll call me a murderer.”

“Don’t,” Pansy begs. “Don’t talk like that, please -”

“Potter will be rolling in money,” Draco notes, seeing the familiar mess of hair in the distance, untameable even by the heavy rain. “He’ll be all over those gossip rags and he’ll probably have his own column. Potter’s Fan Mail.” He laughs humourlessly. “His little cronies will be living off him. I bet you anything that Weasel and Granger will get hitched and the Boy-Who-Lived will be desperate to leap behind a white picket fence with the Weaselette.”

“You can’t talk about him like _that_ , not anymore,”Pansy says miserably, looking around. “Keep your voice down, Draco, people will hear us...”

“People will hear us, people will hear us,” Draco mocks, bringing tears to Pansy’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter what we say anymore. We can’t do anything worse than we’ve done already.”

“We haven’t done anything wrong,” Pansy whispers, her eyes trained on her yellow roses. Draco is silent as the rest of the crowd shuffles past. Pansy and him are the last onto the Hogwarts Express. They remain quiet as they move down the carriages, doors snapping shut as they approach. One by one, the carriages are eliminated. The last one Pansy tries has just one person in it, a burly Hufflepuff who stares unblinkingly at them. Pansy steps inside the carriage but the Hufflepuff speaks without breaking his gaze.

“Sorry. This seat’s taken.”

“We’re the last ones on the train,” Pansy says. “There’s no one else coming.”

“I said it’s taken.”

Pansy stares at him a moment later before turning away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Draco follows her to the very end of the carriage, where they lean against the gently rocking wall.

“What was it that your father always liked to say whenever you didn’t study and got poor grades?” Draco asks.

Pansy doesn’t reply.

“You reap what you sow.” Draco tilts his head back, resting it against the cold metal wall.

Pansy hides her tears in her yellow roses.

Draco closes his eyes and lets everything fade to black.

* * *

Rain slides across the window, droplets forming and dissolving in a heartbeat. Rose watches the beads of water race each other across the cool glass. Between shadow and light, her face flickers in the reflection. Her face is small and narrow, her hair matching her mother’s brown curls.

Hermione steers the car smoothly. It’s a small car, silver and speedy, with a perfectly clean interior. In the back seat, Rose shifts against the itchy grey upholstery. The rain is steady and relentless, a wintry drizzle. The windscreen wipers click every few seconds, the only sound in the car; as it crunches over a gravel driveway, Rose straightens up slightly.

“Here we are,” Hermione says, switching off the engine. Her daughter silently observes the world for a minute. Droplets of rain hang heavily from delicate green leaves. Early roses bloom in the spring rain, their petals bruising under the drizzle. The small house is hidden behind an archway of wisteria. Hermione doesn’t like it, which she knows is silly. There’s just something so perfect about it. She half-expects to see a freshly baked pie upon the window sill, a checked tea-towel thrown over it.

Hannah Abbott opens the door, smiling and welcoming them. “Hello, Hermione! Hello, Rose. How was your weekend?”

“I’ve got to go,” Hermione says. “I’ve got a meeting.”

“It’s my birthday next week,” Rose announces. “Mum _better_ not — ”

“Yes, yes,” Hermione says, looking exasperated. “I won’t have any meetings. Not on your birthday.”

“What’ll you be?” Hannah asks Rose.

Rose stands tall. “Six,” she says importantly.

“Six! My goodness. And your brother? What’s he?”

“Stupid.”

“Rose!” Hermione frowns down at her daughter. “Come on. Hugo’s just a little baby, he’s still learning not to pull hair — is _that_ the time? I’ve got to go.”

“We do offer the portkey service,” Hannah begins, and Hermione shakes her head.

“Not _everything_ has to be magic. My daughter has her Muggle side too.”

“Only you seem a bit pressed for time, and — ”

“No, it’s fine! See you later.” Hermione leans down and tries to kiss Rose’s cheek; Rose ducks away. Hermione straightens up again and waves distractedly over her shoulder, rushing to the car again.

The portkey would be handy. Hermione sits for a moment in the car, trying to organise her thoughts. Meetings and consultations, report due tomorrow, presentation Wednesday, can Molly babysit again? Birthday...Ron said _he_ was organising it, didn’t he?

Hermione turns the engine.

The problem with magic is that it’s so bloody _convenient_.

* * *

Harry fires off the spells quickly, one after another. Sparks sizzle loudly, turn into stars, and then pop into nothing. Rainbow lights shimmer through the air. A piece of lint curls up and then explodes into joyful — if slightly tinny — music.

“Harry,” Ginny says flatly, “I’m trying to fire-call Neville.”

“Right,” Harry says, firing off half-a-dozen snowflakes. Lily lets out a squeal of joy and claps her pudgy toddler hands together; Albus tries to catch the snowflakes. “And you asked me to keep the kids entertained, so...”

“I think that it was _less_ noisy before you arrived.”

“Oh.” Harry taps a nearby Chocolate Frog wrapper; it turns into a fat goldfish and slowly drifts toward the ceiling.

“I’ve seen that one _loads_ of times,” James complains. “Do something new.”

“Oh, um...” Harry looks around the room and catches Ginny’s eye; her mouth looks dangerously thin. “Erm...look, your mother’s trying to fire-call Neville...maybe we should leave...and...go outside?”

“I don’t want to. It’s cold.”

“Outside!” Albus cheers, running to the door and yanking it open. Lily barrels past, dressed in only a nappy and a lopsided witch hat, and leaps into the nearest rain puddle.

“I want a new spell,” James says. “A _new_ one. I’m sick of the goldfish.”

“Hang on,” Harry says distractedly, racing outside and scooping up a sodden Lily. “Let me find a towel first, and — ”

There’s a burning feeling in his pocket. He wrangles Lily inside and tugs the token from his robes, jabbing it with his wand haphazardly.

“Erm...work needs me,” he says to Ginny.

“Tell them you’re busy.”

Harry hesitates. “It’s just...they’ve been working on that cursed house in Suffolk, and...”

“I’m working tonight, I promised McLellan that I’d have that article done — ”

“Can’t Molly babysit again?”

“She’s tired, Harry,” Ginny says wearily. “She won’t admit it but she’s getting old, she’s already babysitting other grandkids, it’s not fair to — where’s Lily?”

Harry turns around and looks at the open door, swears loudly, and bolts away. He races across the front garden, through the open gate, and grabs ahold of Lily, his heart pounding. He returns to the house and shuts the door firmly behind him.

“You said you’d do a _new_ spell,” James begins, and Harry’s patience gives way slightly.

“I’m _busy_ , James! Just _wait_ a minute, will you?”

James glares at him. “ _And_ you said a bad word. You’re not _supposed_ to say a bad word. You’re always telling _us_ not to — ”

“Yes, all right!”

“Who left the door open?” Ginny demands.

“Albus did it!” James says at once.

“I did _not!”_

“For Merlin’s sake!” Harry sets Lily down. “If I have to deal with _one_ more argument about — ”

“Er,” a voice says from the fireplace.

They all glance over at the coals. Neville’s face is peering at them.

“Er, you called?” Neville asks.

Harry clears his throat. Ginny neatens her robes, notices half a jam sandwich thoughtfully stuck to her sleeve, and gives up.

“It’s about your childcare centre, Nev,” she says. “The one you run with Hannah.”

“Oh!” Neville says with surprise. “But...Harry said he didn’t like the idea of it, said he could care for his own kids...” He trails off, evidently noting Ginny’s terse smile and Harry’s sudden interest in the floor. “Oh. Well...we haven’t got any places open right now, not for all three...I can add you to the waiting list.”

“The waiting list?” Ginny can’t keep the dismay from her voice, and Harry looks away guiltily.

“I’ll...let Wentworth know I can’t come in,” he mutters.

In his pocket, the token seems to still burn even though he knows he deactivated it.

What he _wouldn’t_ do, he thinks with exhaustion, for a bit of peace and quiet.

* * *

Draco listens to the silence and wishes for nothing more than noise. It wouldn’t have to be much. Just his son’s voice.

It’s been nearly a year since he heard his son’s voice.

Astoria sits beside him. She’s dressed in light, floral robes, and has a silk scarf arranged artfully around her neck. Her hands are in her lap, her expression neutral, but Draco can see the tension anyway. It hides in her pressed mouth, her straight back, her clenched jaw.

“...and you mustn’t blame yourself,” the Healer is saying, looking at Draco. “You mustn’t hold yourself directly responsible for — ”

“Why would we blame ourselves?” Astoria asks coldly.

The Healer coughs. “Well, often, when parents have their own...difficulties, and the child then has their own...problems...”

“Nobody said anything about people having problems.” Astoria’s voice manages to reach new and even frostier temperatures. “Why are you talking about people blaming themselves?”

The Healer coughs again. “You _did_ mention that Scorpius’s mutism began _just_ before the divorce — ”

Astoria stands up.

“Draco is a good father,” she says angrily. “How _dare_ you. I’m _not_ sitting here paying you to insult the father of my child.”

She leaves; Draco follows her.

“Astoria — ”

“No,” she snaps.

“He’s the _only_ Healer in England who specialises in speech pathology — ”

“We’ll find another.”

“We _can’t_. I’m telling you, he’s the only — ”

“We’ll find another,” Astoria repeats loudly.

Draco says nothing. They go to the waiting room nearby, where Narcissa is smiling indulgently as she watches Scorpius. He’s playing with a wooden train set, pulling the little Hogwarts Express around in circles. After a moment, Draco says, “He’s got a point.”

“Draco,” Astoria says warningly.

“It _did_ begin right before our divorce — ”

“Don’t. _Don’t_ start thinking like that. You mustn’t let them win.”

 _Them_. All those who wish to see Draco fail. To crash and burn spectacularly, like a backfired hex. To see him somehow pay for his past wrongs.

Sometimes it feels like it’s the whole world. Watching, waiting, and hoping for the worst.

Scorpius glances up and catches sight of his parents. He smiles and stands up, running to Astoria for a hug before turning to Draco and throwing his arms around him. It’s a quick hug, a casual one, and so Draco tries not to hold onto him too tightly. Scorpius tilts his face upwards, smiling at Draco, then takes his hand and tugs him forward, pointing at the train set.

“Ah,” Draco says. “Yes, that’s the Hogwarts Express. You’ll go on that one day.”

Scorpius nods.

Astoria leans down, her scarf becoming loose and falling to the ground. “Remember when we talked about school? And you met Neville and Hannah? Remember them? Well, we’ve got good news. They said you’ve moved to the top of the waiting list. Not long now. The next spot will be yours.”

Scorpius brightens. He liked the visit to the cottage, Draco remembers. It had been a good day. Scorpius had liked the toys, especially the little cauldrons and vials of colourful but harmless ‘potions’, and the toy wands that emitted tiny silver sparks. He’d liked Neville, whoasked Scorpius to help him water the plants, and Hannah, who let Scorpius help feed the Nifflers. Both Neville and Hannah had figured Scorpius out quickly, Draco had to admit. Scorpius loves feeling helpful and important.

Still, the trepidation rises. Neville and Hannah had been perfectly kind and welcoming, but surely they would secretly harbour grudges for all Draco did during the war...

“It’ll be fine,” Astoria says quietly to Draco. “It’s the one decent suggestion that Healer actually made. Socialisation will be good for Scorpius. You’ll see.”

Draco offers a wan smile.


End file.
